


In a Lonely Place

by PrettyCalypso



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Accidental Death, Alternate Universe - Murder Mystery, Bipolar Ian, Dancer Ian, Detective Mickey, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Murder, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-02-19 03:18:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13114872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyCalypso/pseuds/PrettyCalypso
Summary: Mickey and Ian find themselves entangled in a murder mystery - but not on the same sides of the investigation.





	1. Fifteen men on a dead man's chest and a bottle of rum

**Author's Note:**

> So... I'm starting a new fic without finishing the others? How unexpected that is.
> 
> Anyway, I LOVE writing this piece, even though it's super dark, so I hope you will like it too.
> 
> Happy holidays! :)

 

The dim lighting gave the room a mysterious ambiance at the edge of cosy. The old booths made of wood and green leather were almost all empty except for a couple of patrons drowning their problems in alcohol. One middle-age man was sipping a beer, his thumb regularly caressing the wedding ring on his finger. A woman was sitting not too far away, in her thirties, dressed like the damsel in distress of a Noir film, her long fingers firmly holding a glass of Martini, her eyes drifting to the covered window that didn't let any light in. At the bar, an old man was passed out next to his empty glass, face down on the hard and dirty wood. And two stools away, the youngest costumer of this drinking hole was quietly enjoying his whiskey. He didn't look older than twenty-five, but not younger either, his face was marked enough by the hardship of life to age him correctly. Wearing a black button-up shirt and dark jeans he regularly waved at the barmaid to tap his glass.

  
"Tough night?" the woman asked as she poured his third drink of the night.

  
He nodded silently, tilting the glass back to drink it faster. _We increase the doses, we speed up the process._ He emitted a satisfactory sound when he reached the bottom, and taped the glass with his index finger to ask for more.

  
"Wanna talk about it?" the barmaid tried again.

  
From the countless nights he had been in her bar, she had never seen him drink that much.

  
"Nope." he answered simply, popping the 'p' at the end and bringing the alcohol to his mouth again.  
  
He left the bar about an hour later, having been forced to reduce the whiskey in favor of beers. He walked all the way to his apartment without realizing it, and crashed on his messy couch.

  
***

 

The first sun rays were the hardest, peaking from behind the city skyline to directly reach his retina. He groaned and rolled on his back, falling off the couch and voicing a harsh slur. He stayed there, on the hard wooden floor for longer than he'd care to admit, massaging his temples but not regretting for a minute his decisions from the night before. Drinking that much was not new to him, it was just a regular Friday night – on a Tuesday. The reasons might have been different this time, but the action and the effects on his body were always the same. He picked himself up after a few minutes, walked to the bathroom, took off his clothes from last night, emptied his bladder and stepped into the shower. Some people have deep, meaningful thoughts when the hot water drip over their body, he didn't. He just stood there for long enough to be clean, scrubbed himself quickly with the soap, and stepped out. He didn't have time for long showers and meaningful thoughts, he had a job to do. He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked to the kitchen to turn the coffee pot on before going into his room and opening his closet. He chose his usual dress shirt and jeans combo, combed and gelled his hair thoroughly, and returned to the kitchen. No time for breakfast, and he wasn't sure his stomach could handle it anyway, so he just poured coffee into his large to-go mug, sipped a little and closed the lid. He put on his boots without dropping the mug, and grabbed his keys and jacket with one hand before opening the door and exiting his apartment.

  
As he expected, his phone, wallet and packet of smokes were still in the coat's pockets from the night before. When he reached the outside of the building and the cold air of Chicago, he reached for the packet of cigarettes, slid one between his lips and lit, taking a deep drag. He filled his lungs with tobacco as he walked the short distance from his home to his work.

  
Nodding in response to all of his coworkers wishing him a good morning, he went directly to his desk and placed the travel mug next to his computer. And, again as expected, he heard his name being called just as he sat on his chair.

  
"Detective Milkovich, my office now."

  
He obeyed his commanding officer, but not without an audible sigh, and made his way to the captain's office. She was a tall and stern woman in her forties, her blond hair always tied in a bun, and her slightly too large pantsuits making her look thinner than she actually was. Sat behind her desk, she looked understandably pissed.

  
"What the hell were you thinking?"

  
He knew he wasn't supposed to answer that, so he stayed silent, hanging his head slightly low to look like he was regretting his actions – even though he wasn't.

  
"Assaulting a murder suspect on his way home while wearing your badge..."

  
"I wasn't wearing my badge."

  
"It doesn't matter! It could compromise the whole case!"

  
She rubbed her temples, looking extremely tired by his attitude.

  
"You're off the case."

  
"What? No! This is my biggest case! I've been on it for almost a year!"

  
"Exactly. And we both now how personal this is for you. I should have done this months ago."

  
"With all due respect, ma'am, it's because of how personal this case is for me that I will solve it."

  
"You assaulted a suspect, Milkovich. I've never seen you act like this before. You're always so cold-headed, you are my best detective. What happened?"

  
"I just... He pissed me off."

  
"He's a very polite and cooperative 23-year-old who, quite frankly, we have nothing against. And you knew I was about to scratch him off the suspect list, but we still needed him for his connection to the victim, so why, why did you do that?"

  
"Because I believe he should be the main suspect and should stay on top of the list."

  
"And that gave you a right to attack him in the street?"

  
"No. I shouldn't have done that. But please keep me on the case, and don't scratch him off just yet."

  
He meant the last two parts, but in no way was he regretting his act. The asshole had it coming. If it was only up to him, he would arrested him right away as the murderer.

  
"Why not the angry client?" the captain asked. "He seems pretty suspect to me."

  
"Ever heard of 'crime of passion'?"

  
"I still don't believe it."

  
"Let me prove it to you. Put me back on the case, and let me prove it to you."

  
She sighed, rubbing her temples again. He knew she thought she was making a mistake, but she still said yes.

  
"Okay. But don't make me regret it."

  
***  


The lights of the club were blinding, a concert of blue, pink and green, only highlighting the dancers' best features, even at eleven in the morning. Only one of the stages was occupied, where a tall and fit redhead wearing only golden booty shorts was dancing for the privilege of only one old man. Detective Milkovich sat in one of the couches facing the stage and waited for the end of the song. The redhead noticed him as soon as he spun around as a move in his dance routine, and his eyes immediately filled with rage. He finished the song less graciously than he had started and hopped off the stage just as the policeman was standing up. They both talk at the exact same time.

  
"What are you doing here?"

  
"You rat on me, Red?"

  
The redhead's features were hard with anger, and even more so when the pink light occasionally glided over him.

  
"I did not 'rat on you', you attacked me in the street! What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you even a real cop?"

  
"You know, I was gonna go easy on you, but you went whining to my boss, you almost cost me my job."

  
"That's not my fucking problem. Now get the hell out or I'm calling security!"

  
He scoffed. This dancer was ridiculous.

  
"Like that's going to scare me. I know you killed Leo, and I'm this close to proving it."

  
"I didn't. kill. anybody. Now get the fuck out of my face!"

 


	2. Too coincidental to be a coincidence

 

The mirror hanging loosely on the wall was cracked and only a blow away from falling, but it was still good enough for him to assess the damages. He had worn make-up during his shift as both the manager and the costumers liked a pretty, unmarked face, but now the bruises on his left cheek and neck could be easily spotted. The crazy detective had attacked him the night before, screaming threats and insults and trying to make him confess to a murder he didn't commit. Of course he knew and remembered Leo, he had trained the kid when he was hired at the club. And yes, they had had a brief affair that only lasted a couple of months and was mainly physical, but they ended it in good terms and he considered the kid as a, if not a friend, at least a friendly acquaintance. He would have never laid a finger on him, even if he had had a reason to – and he didn't. But, somehow, for some unknown and fucked up reason, the detective assigned to the case was convinced he did it, convinced he killed him. He wasn't worried about proving him wrong because he knew there was no evidence against him (as he, once again, wasn't guilty), but he was afraid the detective might kill him out of sheer rage and frustration at his incapacity at solving this murder. Why he was the one taking the blows? He didn't know. But shit if it didn't hurt.

  
He sighed as he stepped away from the mirror, and put on his coat and beanie. Time to go back to his restless, loud and messy house. He walked past the bar as Damien was wiping it. The mid-afternoon crowd was even less populated than the late morning one.

  
"Curtis!" a loud voice called him.

  
He would never get used to his stage name and how ridiculous it sounded, but he shook his head at the thought and walked toward the voice. Simon, the manager of the club, was working on some paperwork, sitting at one of the many empty booths. His eyes shifted from the documents in front of him to the redhead's face, and he frowned when he noticed the bruise.

  
"Why was this detective in here again today?"

  
"He was asking questions about Leo."

  
"And what did you say?"

  
He was surprised by the question, Detective Milkovich had questioned him – and the other employees of the club – several times already, but Simon had never demanded to know what had been said before.

  
"That I didn't do it and didn't know anything. Like every time."

  
"So why did he ask again?"

  
"I don't know."

  
"Does he have something on you?"

  
"I don't know how he could have anything on me because I didn't do it."

  
"Yeah, yeah, but, between us..."

  
Simon narrowed his eyes, ready to hear a big, fat secret.

  
"There's no 'between us', I didn't do shit! Why are you all so sure I did?!"

  
"So he thinks you're guilty?"

  
Simon seemed suddenly even more interested – if that even was possible – so he shook his head and walked away with a sigh.

  
***

  
That night he fell asleep by ten o'clock, alone in his childhood's twin bed, like every night. And that night, his dreams were filled with a happier life and a brighter future, like every night.

  
***

  
The next day, his shift at the club was a late one, from an ungodly hour at night to an ungodly hour in the morning. He usually disconnected his brain while dancing, it was his own way of distancing himself from what he was doing, the only way he didn't feel as dirty as he could feel at the end of his shift. He was surprisingly good at thinking about nothing, maybe the meds helped, maybe it was just good practice. But that night, that night his thoughts kept coming back to this Detective who was after him, and to Leo's murder. It had happened almost a year ago now, and still no real arrest. Maybe the Chicago Police Department didn't care too much about some twink bashed in the head and dumped into a back alley dumpster in Boystown, but one cop sure did. It was reassuring in a way, that there were a few people enforcing the law who cared about people like them, lost and runaway gay teens (and even if he wasn't a teen or a runaway anymore, it felt a tiny bit good), even when the detective in question was a crazy violent motherfucker.

  
***

  


Chicago was too cold. So, as he snuggled into his coat and blew into his hands, he dreamed of sun all day long and warm winters. He was just exiting the club by the backdoor when he saw two people standing not too far in the shadow of the wall. We all know what they were up to. He wasn't doing this anymore, not for money, not for himself. His contract with the club was dancing only, and sometimes working behind the bar, but that was it. And he didn't do one night stands either, only actual dates or nothing (and it was usually nothing). He walked past the horny couple, and into more narrow streets, until he reached the place where Leo had been found. Yes, it was on his road, but it always had been, even years before he even knew Leo. And no, he didn't change it because it was the shortest way and he had nothing to feel guilty about anyway.

  


That night, the street wasn't empty. Two figures were there. At first, he thought they were fucking, but they seemed too far apart, they were talking. He shouldn't have cared, and he shouldn't have eavesdropped, but he did, and what he heard was unsettling.

  


"We're in the clear, stop freaking out."

  


"But if they suspect Gallagher..."

  


"Yes, Gallagher. Let them focus on him, they'll forget about us."

  


And with this declaration, one of the two men started to walk away. He hid quickly against a wall to not be seen. Had he just heard the beginning of a confession? He needed to tell somebody, and he had one specific person in mind he wanted to tell, but they weren't exactly seeing eye to eye.

 


	3. Check it out, Ian Gallagher putting his big boy pants on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My only knowledge in the American police system, crime investigations and all that comes from TV shows. You've been warned.
> 
> Also, if anybody watches Sense8, you might recognize a character in this chapter.

 

He ran a hand across his face, sighing for the umpteenth time as he read the file on Ian Gallagher. Again. He had nothing. He wouldn't admit it – even under torture – but he had nothing. The lamps flickered in the precinct as his last remaining colleagues walked past his desk. One of them stopped. His only – sort of – friend, Detective Morales, Diego, mid thirties, brown skin, short black hair, he liked to repeat he had a wife and a son at home. He grabbed a chair nearby and rolled it all the way to the only occupied desk.

  
"You're still on your murder case?"

  
The only answer he was met with was a nod.

  
"You're obsessed."

  
"How do you think I made detective so young?"

  
"By staying at the office all night long and never hanging out with your colleagues? Come on man, come grab a bite with us!"

  
"No. I need to solve this. It was my first case as a detective and I need... I need to see it through."

  
Morales sighed.

  
"You're not gonna solve it tonight, especially not on an empty stomach. And the redhead didn't do it anyway."

  
This time, Morales was met by a middle finger raised in his direction. He huffed, stood up, and started to walk toward the other detectives waiting for him in the lobby.

  
"Don't work too hard Mickey!"

  
***

  
_First it was a fist, connecting with his jaw. And another one, busting his nose. The blood started_ _to run_ _along his chin, his neck, and on his shirt, ruining his favorite tank top. He tried to fight back, gave a few good blows himself, but it all came down to who had the gun. And it wasn't him._

  
He jumped awake, sweat forming on his forehead and behind his neck. Panting loudly, he took the time to take in his surroundings. He was still sitting at his desk, under the flickering light of the precinct. The dirty white walls were still dirty white, and the faded green vinyl floor was still faded green. From a quick glance through the barred window, he could tell it was still nighttime, but not too far from morning. He had spent his night here. It was not the first time, it happened quite a lot, he was – as one could say – married to his job (at least it kept him from being married to anyone else).

  
He took a deep breath and stood up, walking to the coffee machine. He changed the filter, filled it with a new batch of the only cheap powder the precinct could afford and some tap water, and he pressed the button. The percolated sound of the water meeting with the coffee in the filter and then dripping in the pot was strangely soothing. He forced himself to breathe in rhythm with the sound, calming his nerves. And, finally, he was able to pour himself a cup of the hot, brown liquid, and, as he brought it to his lips, he was fully calm.

  
***

  
His colleagues started arriving a couple of hours later. They all greeted him a good morning, but none of them commented on the fact that he was wearing the same clothes than the night before, or that it was obvious he hadn't showered in over twenty-four hours, they were all too used to it to truly care at this point. Detective Mikhailo Milkovich was the brilliant but obsessed cop who brought in more perps than all his colleagues combined due to his lack of social life and his inclination to sleep at the office.  
  
What was surprising though, was that the first civilian coming in that morning was none other than a tall redhead who had been interrogated more than a few times by said-obsessed cop. He walked straight to Detective Milkovich's desk, determination in his eyes, and stopped just a couple of feet away from his known arch enemy.

  
"I've got some intel for you."

  
Mickey scoffed and brought his cup of coffee to his lips. The dancer was ridiculous.

  
"You think you're working for the mafia or something?" he asked in a mocking tone.

  
The redhead rolled his eyes.

  
"Come on, at least listen to me."

  
Mickey sighed, putting his cup back on his desk and stretching his arms behind his head in a relax position.

  
"And why would i do that? You're my number one suspect."

  
"Why? What did I ever do to deserve this spot?"

  
Mickey shook his head with a smile.

  
"Ever heard of 'crime of passion'? It's always the ex lover."

  


"We were not..." the dancer sighed. "We were barely lovers, we can hardly talk of 'passion'." He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You have a thing against ex lovers? What, your ex shit on you?"

  


Mickey didn't give him the satisfaction of replying, but he disentangled his hands to rest them on the desk and occupy them with meaningless tasks, and he couldn't stop his eyes from shifting slightly.

  


"Oh." exclaimed the annoying redhead, looking way too happy with himself. "Looks like I found your sweet spot."

  


Mickey scoffed, hating himself for giving personal information away so easily.

  


"Fuck off. Why are you even here?"

  


"I told you, I've got some intel." - Mickey rolled his eyes at the word. - "I overhead a conversation that might interest you."

  


"And, let me guess, would innocent you?"

  


"Well considering I'm already innocent, it would at least get you off my back for a while."

  


Mickey thought about it for a second. He knew he wasn't supposed to refuse this kind of information, even if the redhead's testimony would probably be irreceivable in court, it could at least open another lead. But the idea of putting his investigation on the redhead aside for a moment pissed Mickey off more than he would care to admit. Truth: he had nothing. But he knew if he kept digging...

  


"I know everything about you, you know." he said, trying to stall, in a low and threatening tone. "I did my research. I know what you did. I know why you lost your license, I know why you are back at the club. Does it still seem so strange that I believe you're guilty now?"

  


He enjoyed watching the colors drain from the redhead's face, going from pale to even paler.

  


"I..." the dancer stuttered. "It was an accident. I never... I would have never done that on purpose. I was... not quite myself and I... it was an accident. I never laid a finger on Leo."

  


This was just too good for Mickey's taste, so he continued with the only viable theory he had so far.

  


"And what tells me it wasn't also 'an accident' with Leo? Maybe you weren't 'quite yourself' again? The charges would be lessen if that case. Involuntary man slaughter, you'd do what? Two years? Out in one for good behavior. I just need a confession."

  


The redhead's facial features went hard again.

  


"I. Did. Not. Kill. Leo." he muttered angrily. "And I came here to tell you that my boss probably did, but if you don't want to hear it, then go fuck yourself!"

  


With two middle fingers raised high enough for the whole floor to see, and every single pairs of eyes stuck on him, Ian Gallagher left the precinct. And Mickey had to admit, he was a little impressed by his boldness.

 


	4. But a last came a knock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning:** this chapter contains some not-so-subtle suicidal thoughts. Please avoid the first 2 paragraphs after the *** if you don't want to read that.

 

Slamming the old wooden door of the Gallagher house made the paper-thin walls tremble and a few pieces of clothing fell from the old coat rack. Fuming with rage, Ian stomped into the living room, slamming the just as fragile glass door that separated the entrance from the living area, keeping the cold out. His older brother was just coming from the kitchen, a plate with a sandwich resting on it in one hand, and a non-alcoholic beer in the other.

  
"I'm guessing things didn't go so well with the thug detective."

  
Ian shook his head, violently taking off his coat to throw it on the nearest armchair.

  
"He's a fucking jerk."

  
"You should bang it out already."

  
The suggestion seemed so absurd that it made Ian raised his eyebrows in both mild disgust and surprise.

  
"There's nothing to 'bang out' Lip, he thinks I'm a murderer! Which I'm not!"

  
"Eh..." Lip shrugged, silently referring to the incident that could prove his younger brother wrong.

  
"I'm not. It was an accident. Everybody should fucking stop using that against me! Don't you think I feel bad enough? That it's not killing me slowly everyday? Yes, somebody died because of me, and I paid the price for it, but I'm NOT a fucking murderer!!!"

  
***  
  


Lonely nights were even more lonely when all of your siblings were out partying, fucking, or whatever else they were doing, and you were left alone with your thoughts on your tiny bed.

  
It happened too often for Ian's liking these days. And it was nights like this when he wondered why he was still here. Despite the fights and quarrels he had his family, yes, but what else? He had no friends, no boyfriend, not even a fuck buddy. He had lost his job and his blooming career, and had found nothing better to earn a living than to shake his body in front of old, horny, closeted men. He had to take meds for the rest of his life for his brain to function normally, and even so, his brain could still take over and cause chaos that once led to the death of another human being. And now, he was accused of murder. What was the point of it all? Why was he even staying alive under such conditions? He couldn't find a single thing in his life worth living for. Although he did wanted to know what happened to Leo, odds were he would be the one ending up in jail for that one too. Maybe he just wasn't brave enough to go through with it. To end it all. What a pathetic human mess he was...

  
Loud knocking on the front door made him come back from his self-deprecating journey, and he left the comfort of his bed to go welcome the visitor in – or not, depending on who it would be. And, sure enough, he opened the door to find Detective Milkovich smoking on his front porch.

  
"What?"

  
The detective looked him up and down, from his worn-out sweat pants to his tight black T-shirt.

  
"Aren't you cold?"

  
"Why are you here?" Ian sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

  
The detective shifted from one foot to the other, like a kid sent to give an apology on the playground.

  
"I, er... I talked to my boss about what you heard, and she wants a statement."

  
"Okay."

  
"So, can you come by the precinct, tomorrow morning first thing?"

  
"Sure."

  
A moment of awkward silence passed.

  
"That's it?" Ian finally snapped. "You came all the way down here to tell me to come to the precinct tomorrow? Didn't you get my phone number from all your _'research'_?"

  
The detective smirked and rubbed his nose with his thumb.

  
"Fuck off."

  
He threw away his cigarette butt in the melting snow in the front yard and climbed down the few wooden stairs leading to the street. Ian was about to close the door when the detective turned around.

  
"You really didn't do it?"

  
The redhead shook his head. He was tired of this question.

  
"And your boss?" the other man continued. "You think he's involved?"

  
"What? You wanna hear me now?"

  
"I mean you'd still have to come to the precinct for an official statement, but you could rehearse it. Or not, whatever."

  
Ian sighed. He really didn't want to deal with the asshole detective tonight. But, on the other hand, he didn't have much else to do, apart from sulking.

  
"Okay." he gave in. "Come in."

  
He opened the door wider and retreated inside, showing the way into the living-room. Detective Milkovich closed both doors behind himself and stood there, awkward in Ian's house, assessing the decoration and the mess.

  


"It's shitty I know." Ian said, the tone of his voice warning the other man to not comment.

  


"Didn't say anything." the cop muttered.

  


He was still standing there, wrapped up in his huge coat, biting his lower lip, and Ian guessed he had seen he shared of houses, from the victim's to the witness's, and that it was probably never easy to decide how to act, whether he made himself comfortable and sat down or just stayed there. Each house has its own rules.

  


"Make yourself at home." Ian said, trying to be polite but also staying very reluctant at the idea of welcoming this man in his personal space.

  


The detective finally took off his coat, and folded it carefully on the back of the couch, sitting on that same couch, as far away from Ian as possible.

  


"So, what did you hear?"

  


"Cut right to the chase, uh?"

  


"It's my job."

  


"True."

  


Ian took a second to recall the events of the previous night.

  


"Last night, I was leaving the club after my shift, and I walked by the street Leo was found in – like I always do, don't even start. And I heard voices, two men talking, my boss, Simon, and some other guy I think I recognized but I'm not sure. Another dancer I never have shifts with I believe."

  


"What were they saying?"

  


"Something about 'being in the clear' because you suspected me."

  


The detective snickered a laugh.

  


"So, let me get this straight: your boss and some other random guy were standing in the spot the victim was found and talked about the police not suspecting them just as you 'happened to walk by'?"

  


"I never said they were smart."

  


"Yeah, right. Sorry Red, but I don't believe you."

  


"Figures."

  


Both men rolled their eyes at the same time, equally exasperated by the other. And something else suddenly came back to Ian.

  


"Simon questioned me. Yesterday, after you left, he asked me a bunch of weird questions about what you wanted with me."

  


"And you have any witness to both encounters?"

  


Ian shook his head.

  


"I don't have enough here to investigate. Sorry Red."

  


And with that, the detective stood up and started to gather his things, ready to leave. The idea to be alone with himself again didn't sit well with Ian. And, somehow, having the crazy cop here was better than nothing. Ian stood up as well.

  


"I want to help you investigate." he declared, the idea coming out of the blue.

  


"Sorry, did you suddenly graduate from the police academy?"

  


"I could be your man on the inside, check on Simon."

  


"Again, this is not the mafia, I don't need a mole."

  


"Please? Let me help. Anything, I'll do it."

 


	5. The stolen jewelry of Mrs Hooper

 

A suspect wanting to help the investigation was nothing new, it happened all the time, it let them stay in the clear, so Mickey, naturally, always refused this kind of proposition. But something in the redhead's tone made him uneasy. Not the "he's the murderer" type of uneasy, but more "this guy seems desperate", and if Mickey could handle the first one, he hated the second one.

  
When Mickey took a long time to answer, the other man lowered his big sad eyes to the ground and shook his head.

  
"It's okay, forget it."

  
Shit. Mickey hated that so much. And he knew the guy's history, he had read his file more than once, he knew exactly what could go through his mind because he would have had the exact same thoughts in his place.

  
"Okay." he heard himself agree. "Let's find some shit on Simon, and you can help me."

  
And for the first time he really looked at the redhead's face, at his freckles and the dark circles under his eyes, and he noticed the marks he had left from his fit of rage a few days earlier.

  
"I'm, hum... sorry, about... that." he said, gesturing awkwardly at his own face to pin point the emplacement of the bruises.

  
"Wow." the redhead laughed darkly. "Never thought I'd hear you said that."

  
***  
  


  
There was something to both hate and love about Mickey's apartment. It was small, dark and almost empty – except for the basic pieces of furniture – and even though it was his fault for not decorating and not spending enough time there, it didn't stop him from despising the lack of warmth in his own home. Although, on the other hand, it was his and only his, he had found it, the lease was in his name, and he paid for the rent with his hard-earned salary. It was the first place that was ever his and only his, the first place in which he could enjoy complete privacy, and the first place in which he felt safe.

  
And as he lied down in his sort-of comfortable queen bed – that he had bought second hand – for the first time in a few days, he released a deep breath of contentment. He knew his brain would be circling back to the investigation (like it always did) in less than a minute, but he was happy to enjoy a moment of calm before diving back down into this shit-storm he was involved in.

  
***

  
"They came in, and stole all of my jewelry."

  
Mickey nodded silently, and pretending to take notes while the old Mrs Hooper kept ranting about her stolen jewelry. He had already made the call, the retirement house personnel would come pick up her soon. The place was so poorly guarded that the old lady managed to 'escape' regularly to come declare the theft of her jewelry to the precinct – jewelry that her grandchildren had sold to pay for her spot in that same old people house. And, because his colleagues were assholes, they had sent her to Mickey when she came in on his first day in, resulting in a loss of tax payers' money when the young detective had lead a full-on investigation for nothing. He remained nice and polite with her though, so she often chose to complain to him.

  
"They were sitting on the dresser, where I always leave them, and this morning..."

  
Mickey rapidly tuned her rambling out when he saw a familiar face walk out of the elevator. Gallagher looked just as terrible as Mickey had left him, and the detective wondered if he had slept at all. He stood up without realizing it until Mrs Hooper called him, visibly offended he didn't care about her complaint.

  
"Yeah, sorry ma'am." he mumbled, looking back down at her. "Can I refer you to one of my colleagues? Morales here will be happy to help you."

  
He sent her quickly to Diego's desk, earning a not-so-subtle middle finger from his friend, and walked up to the redhead, who was waiting by the entrance.

  
"Hi Red. Ready for your statement?"

  
"You know I have an actual name, right?"

  
"I really don't give a shit. Come on."

  
He lead him through the hallway to one of the interrogation room and made sure to turn off the microphones, for more peace and quiet (this shit was sensitive after all). They both sat on opposite side of the table, and Mickey produced a notebook and a pen, as well as a small recording device. He turned the latter on, put it down on the table at equal distance between the two of them and cleared his throat.

  
"So, what do you have to tell me?"

  
The redhead repeated his story from the night before, developing the details at Mickey's demand (exact date, time, place, names). It only took a couple of minutes – not surprising, considering how slim the info was – and then he silently waited for Mickey to finish taking notes.

  
"That's it?"

  
"Well... Yeah..."

  
"Okay. I will add your statement to the on-going investigation and talk it through with my commanding officer. Thank you for coming forward with this information."

  
Mickey closed the notebook, turned the device off, and stood up. He noticed, when he reached the door, that the redhead was still sitting, looking at him expectantly.

  
"What?"

  
"I'm working this afternoon. What do you want me to do?"

  
Mickey rolled his eyes. He had forgotten about their little agreement.

  
"Just do your normal thing, but keep an eye on Simon and that other dude. And stay discreet.

  
***

  
"Captain."

  
"Detective Milkovich."

  
Mickey sat on the chair facing his captain's desk, Gallagher's statement in hand.

  
"I heard a certain 'number one suspect' came by this morning."

  
"Yes, ma'am."

  
"Did you attack him again?"

  
"No ma'am. He actually came to inform us of what he heard the other day. I took his statement and stayed perfectly polite."

  
"Good. So what was this crucial information he had to share?"

  
Mickey re-told the tale once again, trying to stay as faithful to the redhead's words as he possibly could.

  
"Here are my notes and the recording if you want to check for yourself."

  
The captain nodded and let Mickey place the items on her desk.

  
"So what do you think? Fake or worth verifying?"

  
Mickey hesitated for a second. He still didn't believe in it, but he also knew he needed to show some progress to his captain and appear less obsessed by Gallagher if he wanted to keep the case.

  
"I think maybe we should check it out. I can go by the club and interrogate again the two men Gallagher mentioned. Try to place their conversation, double cross their alibis and all that."

  
"I agree."

  
Satisfied with his captain's half smile, the detective stood up, ready to go back to his own desk, when she called him back.

  
"Oh and Mickey? Leave that poor Gallagher alone for a little while, okay?"

 


	6. Mick

 

Work was uneventful at best, boring at worse. Ian was on bar duty, working in a tank top that barely conceived anything instead of shirtless – an improvement, probably. As promised, he kept an eye on his coworkers and on Simon, but nothing out of the ordinary happened. Until Detective Milkovich arrived, casually walking through the club like he owned the place, and going straight to Simon's office. The two men stayed in there for a good half an hour – half an hour during which Ian only had two costumers and forced his eyes to be focused on them instead of the closed door of Simon's office. And finally, the detective walked out. He looked up, scanned the place quickly until he saw Ian, who sent a small knowing smile his way, smile that the cop ignored, averting his eyes as fast as he had looked in the first place and leaving the club. Slightly deflated, Ian went back to work like nothing had happened, and finished his shift without a fuss.

  


It was only when he was about to go home that Simon called him again, inviting him in the office that the detective had previously visited. Sitting behind his desk, Simon ridiculously tried to look like the Godfather even though he was a 33-year-old gay hipster.

  


"Curtis. Ian." he said dramatically. "I've had a visit this afternoon from our friend, Detective Milkovich. He came to ask me a lot of questions about Leo, but also, strangely, about my whereabouts two nights ago. What did you tell him?"

  


Standing as close to the door as possible without looking ready to flee, Ian felt his palms sweat.

  


"What do you mean?"

  


Simon sighed as if he was addressing a very thick toddler.

  


"This very same detective came by two days ago to interrogate you. What did you tell him?"

  


"I already told you." Ian repeated, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "He asked me if I killed Leo, and I told him I didn't. That's it. He was only here for five minutes."

  


"You can say a lot in five minutes."

  


"What do you want me to tell him? What are you accusing me of here?"

  


"Nothing." Simon smiled falsely, his voice pretending to be soothing. "I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page."

  


Ian rolled his eyes. What a phony.

  


"Look Simon, I didn't kill Leo and I have no fucking clue who did. I don't have anything to say to anybody. I hate that fucking Milkovich guy, and I have nothing to tell him about you or anyone else."

  


"Good." Simon nodded, finally looking fully satisfied. "You may go now."

  


***

  


Ian didn't go home right away, he couldn't help himself, but he went to the precinct. He shared the elevator ride with a few cops in uniforms until he arrived to the right floor. He looked around for a while, but couldn't spot his favorite (scratch that, most hated) detective. After a couple of minutes of standing there awkwardly, he was approached by a slightly older man with brown skin and short black hair.

  


"Detective Morales." he introduced himself, stretching a hand out to shake. "Can I help you?"

  


"Hum... Yes." Ian answered, shaking the hand hastily. "I'm here to talk to Detective Milkovich, I'm... uh... well I'm a suspect on one of his cases."

  


"The Smith case, right?"

  


Ian nodded. He shouldn't have been surprised that this guy recognized him, detectives talked amongst themselves and he had been at the precinct quite a lot these past few days alone.

  


"Mickey's out on another case right now." the man informed him. "Do you need anything?"

  


"No. Just... tell him I stopped by."

  


"Will do." the detective answered with a smile.

  


***

  


"You live alone here?" Detective Milkovich asked when he showed up, once again, late and unannounced at Ian's house, taking in the usual mess.

  


"No." the redhead shook his head. "My siblings are just... I don't know. They're never here."

  


The detective shrugged, he didn't seem to really care.

  


"So what was it that you wanted to see me? Diego said you stopped by today."

  


"I wanted to ask you how it went with Simon."

  


The cop sighed loudly and rolled his eyes.

  


"Gallagher, you can't just show up at the precinct every day or try to interact with me when I come to the club, that's gonna raise fucking suspicions."

  


"Okay." Ian deflated. "I'm sorry."

  


The detective rubbed his thumb on his lower lip, before sighing again, and Ian was pretty sure he heard a low "fuck it" being muttered under his breath.

  
"Give me your phone."

  
"What?"

  
"Give me your phone."

  
Ian obeyed, handing the device to the detective, who quickly typed something in it before handing it back. Ian immediately saw the new contact and smiled at the name.

  
"So, should I call you 'Mick' now?"

  
"No. It just looks more casual if somebody happens to be snooping around or see you text me."

  
It made absolute sense, but Ian kept smiling without really being sure why.

  
"So, for Simon...?" he asked again, forcing himself to snap back of his stupid grin.

  
"So nothing. He gave me the same answer than last time I interrogated him, and he swears he worked all night at the club two nights ago, without leaving his office."

  
Shit. That wasn't good for Ian.

  
"But I know it was him..." he tried to argue.

  
"I believe you."

  
The detective's confession made the redhead's eyebrows shoot up in surprised.

  
"Seriously?"

  
"I didn't before. But the guy was acting shady as fuck this morning. He's hiding something. Still don't think he killed Leo, he doesn't look like a murderer, but maybe he knows who did it."

  
Now, Ian was just plainly offended by the detective's words.

  
"And I look more like a murderer than this asshole?"

  
The other man just raised his eyebrows to get his point across.

  
"Oh fuck off."

  
***

  
[Sent, 11.45pm] So, what's going to be my name in your phone?

  
[Received, 11.59pm] Suspect n°1

  
[Sent, 12.01am] *middle finger emoji*

 


	7. I have a mother too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning :** mentions of drug addiction, child abuse and neglect, and underage prostitution in this chapter (but nothing we haven't seen in the show before).

 

Mickey spent the next few weeks trying to find dirt on Simon, and he basically came up with nothing. It was even harder when he didn't have a warrant and he didn't have enough to get a warrant, so he was running in circle, trying to find a proof to he-didn't-know-exactly-what and never found anything. And it didn't help that an overeager ginger puppy was texting him every night a variation of "any news"?

  


At first, he was more than annoyed, but he couldn't really blame himself as he was the one who gave him his phone number in the first place, so he answered with either "no" or just didn't answer – because no text answers that question just as good as a text does. But then, he started to look forward to this little nightly ritual. He wasn't sure exactly why and it exasperated him even more, but maybe the idea of having a sort of friend outside of the precinct was pleasant? So he no longer gave zero answer, sometimes he was still just typing "no", but most of the time he was developing his message a little more to "I found nothing" or "Simon is a secretive asshole".

  


***

  


Almost two months after he decided to focus on Simon, something came up. Something big, but not in the direction he was expecting things to go. You see, Leo Smith was a runaway teen who started working at the club under a false identity, and as deep as they searched, they never found out who he actually was or where his parents lived. They put posters in circulation, they went through all the missing people files, and nothing. Until his mother showed up.

  


Mickey was only five minutes late at the precinct, he had spent the previous night playing too much video games to get his mind off of this empty hell hole that was the case, and had only slept for a couple of hours. Diego was standing next to Mickey's desk, fidgeting like a fangirl meeting his idol, a big smile on his face that he was trying to hide to keep the mystery.

  


"What?" Mickey laughed when he saw him. "One Direction is getting back together?"

  


"Better."

  


"What could be better than that?" Mickey asked ironically.

  


"We found the mother."

  


"The mother?"

  


"Leo's mother."

  


"No shit?"

  


"No shit."

  


It was Mickey's turn to smile as he followed his coworker to one of the interrogation rooms and they stepped behind the glass. She was there, sitting alone and waiting to be interrogated, her hands on her laps, looking around the room. Her brown hair was thin and looked dirty, her body was slim, underfed, and her clothes seemed to come straight from the garbage. She regularly scratched her left arm, where the long sleeve did nothing to hide the needle marks.

  


"Fucking junkie." Mickey sighed. "What are we gonna do with her?"

  


Diego shrugged. _Exactly._ She was there, yes, but she seemed just as useless as when they didn't have her.

  


"Where did you find her?"

  


"She came forward."

  


"Oh, so you didn't find shit, she did all the work!"

  


Diego shrugged again, and Mickey smirked.

  


"Alright, let's see what she has to say."

  


He left his colleague behind the one-way mirror and walked inside the room, sitting across from the woman.

  


"Good morning." he said politely. "You're stating you are Leo's mother?"

  


"Who?"

  


"Leo." Mickey repeated, showing off of the flyers that displayed the boy's face. "That's who you showed up for, right?"

  


"His name isn't Leo." she shook her head. "It's Jackson. Jackson Hainski."

  


Mickey took note of this new information.

  


"And what is your name?"

  


"Mary Hainski."

  


"And when was the last time you saw your son?"

  


She took a moment to think, her hand going back to her arm. Mickey held in a sigh.

  


"A little over a year ago I think..."

  


"Was he living with you?"

  


"No. He was taken from me."

  


"Taken?"

  


"DCFS. He was living with a foster family. Real assholes. Didn't care about him, only about the money."

  


Mickey took more notes and nodded. He didn't say anything, but he could relate, he had been there himself – not on the parent's side of course, but he had known his share of foster homes.

  


"Do you remember their names?"

  


"Hum... Johnson? I think? Something like that?"

  


Mickey wrote the name down, mentally reminding himself to check Leo's – Jackson's – file with DCFS after this interview.

  


"What else can you tell me about your last meeting with your son?"

  


She stayed silent for a few too long seconds, looking down at her dirty nails, before shrugging.

  


"Look," Mickey sighed, rubbing his hand down his face. "I'm trying to solve a murder here, I don't care if you got high together or whatever, I just want a lead."

  


"Mickey." Diego's voice resonated in the microphone, strong and steady.

  


It made Mickey look up, seeing the tears in the woman's eyes.

  


"You think my son has been murdered?"

  


Shit. He had thought she knew, everybody knew by then, and even if she didn't, he thought his colleagues had brought up to speed. Why else did she think she was interrogated? He took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice warm and comforting.

  


"We do believe so, ma'am. I'm sorry."

  


She nodded slowly, and sniffed the tears away.

  


"Do you remember what happened the last time you saw him?"

  


"You... You think I did it?"

  


"No." (he cursed himself internally for making her believe he did) "I'm just trying to figure your son out, it will help us solve the case and bring the monster who hurt him behind bars."

  


She smiled sadly at him and at his apparent empathy.

  


"I... He brought me money. And supplies."

  


"Supplies?"

  


She tilted her head to the side, pointing at her arm.

  


"I see." Mickey sighed. "Did he do that often?"

  


"Yes. It's why he took the job at the club, to earn money for me."

  


"So you knew about the job?"

  


"Yes. But I didn't know he changed his name... What did you say it was?"

  


"Leo. He was employed under a fake identity to, we guessed, pretend to be older."

  


"He was 16."

  


"Yeah, that's pretty much what the doc said, and the jerks at the club knew his identity was phony and that he was probably underage but they didn't exactly care."

  


The woman nodded and Mickey took a moment to really look at her. He had thought she would be useless but she had actually given him some good information. And even if she was probably not sober, she seemed lucid and (without saying she was the mother of the year) she seemed to actually care about her son – more than he could say about his own junkie mother.

  


"Do you know where he got the 'supplies'?" he asked gently.

  


"No.” she admitted, defeated. “I asked but he would never tell me. I didn't want him, you see, I didn't want him involve in this shit."

  


"It's okay." Mickey smiled gently. "Kids do that sometimes."

  


She smiled in return, and it was time for Mickey's last question, she looked tired and he wasn't feeling so good himself, his questioning was becoming way too personal.

  


"We know that he often stayed the night with other guys from the club, or even clients. Do you know when he ran away from his foster family?"

  


"No. He never told me. I thought... Shit... I told him so many times to stay with them... He did that before, with other families. Two more years I told him, two more years and you're free... Why didn't he listen?"

 


	8. You've got a friend in me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The **warnings** from the previous chapter still apply.

 

Sitting across from him in a McDonald's booth, Ian watched Mickey sip on his milkshake. The detective had barely said a word since he was had asked the redhead to join him in the chain restaurant in the middle of the day.

 

"So..."

 

"So." Mickey repeated, popping the straw out of his mouth.

 

"What's going on?"

 

The detective let out a deep sigh, rubbing a hand over his face and looking around, avoiding Ian's eyes. He seemed exhausted.

 

"Did you find something on Simon?"

 

"No." He took a new sip of his milkshake. "His mom showed up."

 

"Simon's mom?"

 

"Not Simon's." Mickey rolled his eyes. "Leo's. Well... Jackson's."

 

Ian took a moment to digest the information. They had found Leo's mom. That was good. Right? But he was also disappointed because he had hoped there was a new lead on Simon, ever since he had overheard him conspire in that dark alley, he had wanted him behind bars. Or maybe he had always wanted him behind bars, and his possible involvement in Leo's murder gave him a reason.

 

"So what happened? With the mom?"

 

Mickey finished his milkshake and pushed it away from him on the table. He then sat back on his seat and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

 

"She's a junkie." he muttered. "A fucking junkie who lost her kid to DCFS more times than she can count and used him to get drugs and money."

 

Shit. That wasn't good. But it also wasn't uncommon in Ian's world, his siblings and him had been in the system a few times, and their mom wasn't that much better...

 

"My mom's a junkie too." he said. "Bipolar, medicate herself with drugs. She would probably also take a year to come recognize my body at the morgue."

 

Mickey lowered his hands. Ian had wanted to keep the tone light, but the detective wasn't amused.

 

"You have siblings though. A bunch of them according to my files. How many of them would notice if you disappeared? And how long would it take them?"

 

"All of them." Ian admitted as if he was ashamed of it. "All of them would notice. It would take them a few days maybe, but they would all worry."

 

Mickey laughed, a dry, humorless laugh.

 

"That's what I fucking thought. You know how many family members would come for me? None. Not even a year later, not five years, not ten. They would never come. And you know how my mom thanked me when I was 13 and buying her drugs so she would stay at home with us? She didn't. She left and never looked back. Leo's mom cared. She was high off her ass, but she cared enough to know where her kid had been placed, the name of the family, if they were good to him. My parents never gave a shit. My dad only did what he had to do to get us back when he needed help on a run. You think you had it tough? You think Leo had it tough? Fucking pussies."

 

Ian swallowed back the lump in his throat. He wanted to cry, but, for once, it wasn't for him, it was for Mickey, he wanted to cry for Mickey and for the pieces of his terrible childhood he had just heard. He kept his tears at bay though, because he knew the detective wouldn't like that.

 

"I would come." he said instead. "I would come to recognize your body at the morgue if needed."

 

"Oh gee, thanks."

 

"And I would notice if you went missing. Mostly because I wouldn't have anybody around to call me a murderer anymore."

 

"Oh yeah?” Mickey finally smiled – or maybe it was more like a smirk, nevertheless, it made Ian the tiniest bit happier. “How much we bet you'll be the one to kill me?"

  


***

  


As Ian made space on the couch for them both to sit, he realized he had never seen Mickey's apartment. Not that they hung out a lot (they never hung out), but still, it was the third time that Mickey came to the Gallagher house, and Ian had never seen his. He went to get a couple of beers from the fridge and a packet of chips from on top of said-fridge. It was only three o'clock, but after Mickey's milkshake at McDonald's, he didn't seem ready to go back to work, so Ian – without really thinking about it – had invited him over. And Mickey had said yes, which had to be the most surprising outcome of it all.

Ian dropped the items on the coffee table as Mickey made himself comfortable on the couch, looking over at the small piles of video games spread here and there.

 

"You play Call of Duty?” Mickey exclaimed, his voice tinted with surprise, as he picked up the case. “I'm crushing at that game!"

 

Ian immediately heard the challenge and raised his eyebrows with a smile.

  
"Oh really? Let's see about that then!"

  
He grabbed the game and placed the disk in the designated slot it in their X-box. The machine made a small sound of recognition and the screen lit up, showing that the game was loading up. Grabbing one controller, Ian handed another one to his guest.

  
"Show me what you've got, Mr Cop!"

  
***

  
They stopped counting as they entered the second hour of playing, but Ian was certain he won two third of the games. They drank more beer, finished the chips and laughed wholeheartedly. For the first time ever, they weren't at each other's throat and actually had a good time. And for the first time in a long time, Ian felt less alone.

  
When the clock reached six, and Ian's siblings finally started coming home, Mickey waved at them politely and declared it his cue to go home. They turned off the game, and he grabbed his coat, as Ian started gathering the empty beer bottles.

  
"Thanks." the detective muttered so low that Ian almost missed it. "You know for... all of that. Thanks. Gallagher."

  
"You're welcome, Milkovich."

  
Ian watched Mickey leave with a smile, pleased of the progress they had made, and happy to not have an arch enemy anymore. When he turned around, Lip was eyeing him with a smirk.

  
"Are you gonna tap that?"

  
"Fuck off Lip."

 


	9. The inconvenient reality of falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you ask, yes I wrote this chapter while being stuck inside during the snowstorm in New York.
> 
> And sorry if it's short, I'm struggling with a little writer's block.

 

The snow was falling steadily and soundly outside of his window when Mickey woke up, comfortably snuggled into his warm blanket. He didn't recall any vivid dream – or any dream at all for that matter – but he quickly noticed that he was sporting a nice morning erection. He considered taking care of it under the shower, but he was too cosy in his bed to move, so he leaned back into his pillows, letting all other thoughts drift away as he slipped his right hand into his boxers, and began to gently stroke himself. The first thought that came to his mind was a chiseled body, hard abs and smooth skin, but before he could stop it, his brain started to add freckles and patches of red hair.

  
“Fuck” Mickey murmured, quickening his pace as he started to clearly picture Ian's face over this imaginary body.

  
He ran his other hand down his chest slowly, trailing down his hard stomach and curving around his hips, caressing his balls, his other hand pumping frantically to the memory of Ian's smile the previous night, and his corny jokes. He came into his hand, gasping for air. Fuck. That was unexpected.

  


***

  
When he finally found the strength to get out of bed and open the curtains of his bedroom window, he could barely spot the building on the other side of the street as the blizzard was so intensely blowing. This looked like the type of "snow days" he hated when he was a kid, the type of days when he wasn't allowed to leave the house and his father had enough alcohol stashed in the house to not venture outside, the type of days when avoiding the wrath and boredom of his dad in such a tiny and crowded house was a real game of cat and mouse. And, indeed, when Mickey checked his phone, he was informed that the population was advised to stay inside, and a text from his captain told him that all the Chicago Police employees, except for the uniforms, didn't have to bother coming to work.

Mickey stepped away from the window and decided to start his day off by a long hot shower.

  
***

  
After the water finally went cold and Mickey was forced to end his shower, he put on a pair of sweatpants and made himself a cup of coffee. He was glad he didn't have to leave the house by this weather, but, to be honest, he didn't mind going to work, he even enjoyed it, especially when his investigations took an interesting turn like Leo's case had the day before. He starred at the walls of his living-room for a long moment, white walls that clearly lacked decoration, and he made the decision to act like the cliché obsessed cop every TV show tried to pass as normal. He went to grab his files on the case and laid them all down on his coffee table before starting to tape the most important clues on the wall, photos of the crime scenes, of the victim and the suspects, and the very few other items they had. He then went to his desk to retrieve a small plastic box full of colorful pins and he placed them on the wall, color-coding the different aspects of the investigations. And finally he used old shoe laces (who the fuck had yarn anyway?) to connect the elements that needed connection. Once he was satisfied with his homemade investigation board, he took a step back and admired his work. He could now see the appeal and understood why so many TV cops used it. Although he wasn't sure that it would help him solve the case, it was just a nicer presentation of the little evidence he already knew by heart.

  
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he reached for it to find an incoming text from the annoying redhead who invaded his thoughts too much.

  
[Received, 9.09am] Stay warm :)

  
Mickey wasn't able to stop the smile from stretching his lips. But he couldn't let the ginger know that, so he typed a few words, trying to sound pissed.

  
[Sent, 9.11am] Fuck off. This fucking weather is keeping me from working on the case. I'm stuck in my shitty apartment!

  
[Received, 9.15am] I could come over to keep you company.

  
[Sent, 9.17am] 1. Like hell I would invite you to my place. 2. Going out by this weather? Are you crazy?

  
[Received, 9.17am] l thought your files already said I am.

  
[Sent, 9.18am] You know that's not what I meant.

  
[Received, 9.20am]. Yeah. Enjoy your day off.

  
Mickey didn't know Ian that well yet (apart from the information he had in his files), but he could say the redhead was hurt, and it annoyed Mickey not only that he was the one who had hurt him, but also that that very fact annoyed him. He didn't want to care. Looking up, he met the man's eyes on the picture taped to his board. He had this kind but sad expression Mickey had seen on him on more than one occasion, like a puppy kicked to the curb, his green eyes slightly dipping, his lips in a straight line, only the edges curved down almost imperceptibly. Mickey felt the sudden urge to give him a hug. When had he started to care that much? He needed to pull himself together and keep working on the case because, as far as he knew, Ian still wasn't completely off the hook. He grabbed the thick file with the redhead's name on it, in which he had detailed almost his entire life, and flicked a few pages until he got to "the incident". What happened was terrible, and he couldn't even begin to imagine how Ian felt about it, and how he was still able to get out of bed in the morning, facing the consequences of his actions, but Mickey also couldn't shake the thought telling him that, maybe, Leo had known the same faith than this poor young woman...

 


	10. Russel Hines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to gift this chapter to [Jackie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Q/pseuds/J_Q) for being such a faithful reader and insightful commenter, and for helping me out of my writer's block. Thank you, I'm mostly writing for you at this point :)

 

Ian watched the snowflakes fall outside of his window. Apparently, each snowflake is unique, you can never find the same twice. Like people. Ian never doubted that he was unique, his own person, and that no one was like him. On the contrary, he hoped nobody lived the same life than he did, suffered from the same struggles. He felt exactly like these snowflakes, one in a million, falling, like all of his companions around, people seeing the big picture, but nobody noticing him in particular, he didn't stand out, he was just one other snowflake.

He looked down at his phone, re-reading the couple of messages he had exchanged with Mickey. He knew he had reacted like a child and had gotten upset faster than he should have, but he really couldn't stand the word "crazy". He thought about sending the detective another message, apologizing, but he quickly gave up the idea. They got along, but weren't exactly friends, he didn't want to push it. He sighed and looked back up at the window and the snow still falling outside. As the child, he loved this type of days, staying home from school all day with his siblings, snuggling in blankets and drinking hot cocoa, bundling up and going outside after the wind had calmed down, making snowmen and angels, or starting a snowball fight. But today he was almost missing work – and that meant plenty, he hated work. He was alone, and bored. Fiona was staying at her own apartment in the building she had purchased a few months ago, Lip was probably stuck inside with the girl he had slept with the night before, Debbie had found a new man to support her and her child, Carl was back at military school, and Liam was... Where was Liam? Taken by a sudden feeling of panic, Ian texted his little brother, and a (small, tiny) part of him was almost glad for the sudden urgency of finding the youngest Gallagher. But Liam answered right away, reminding his older brother that he had been invited to a sleepover at a friend's house the night before. Ian deflated. Oh, yeah, right.

He dropped back down on his bed with a loud sigh, his eyes shifting to his childhood posters still hanging on his walls. Far gone was the kid who was doing hardcore ROTC and was dreaming of going into the army. He had had his chances at being a hero, twice, and his fucked-up brain had taken the opportunity away from him, twice. Now he was a dancer – a stripper – working for the benefit of old, disgusting, horny men, and under the management of an asshole like Simon. If only he could prove that Simon had killed Leo...

  


***

  


The storm had quieted down, but the snow was still falling. Thankfully, the Fairy Tail was well heated. Ian danced through his shift thinking of Simon and the ways he could get him arrested. He only came up with something – a brilliant idea if he could allow himself such praise – when he saw Simon unsuccessfully flirt with a costumer near closing time. Ian didn't use his body anymore for this type of things – getting information, money or party favors out of somebody – but he wasn't a stranger to the practice. And he wasn't a stranger to Simon's preferences.

He waited until closing time, hanging around the club, and approached his boss when they were the only two left in the place. Simon looked at him suspiciously.

  


"What do you want, 'Curtis'?"

  


Ian turned on the charm and smiled.

  


"I was just thinking about your big comfy bed and wondering if it was still in that warm apartment of yours..."

  


Simon grinned back, looking victorious even though he had done nothing to win.

  


"It is." he said lasciviously. "And we can go there as soon as I finish closing up."

  


He walked around Ian, letting a finger trail on his arm, to go lock the front door – no pun intended. Ian watched him leave, before he took his phone out of his pocket and typed a quick text to Mickey.

  


[Sent, 3.03am] I'm gonna make him talk.

  


***

  


Sex with Simon wasn't too bad, conformed to Ian's memory, except this time he was painfully conscious that he was fucking a possible murderer. So he closed his eyes and thought about Mickey – not in a sexual way, but he thought about how happy and proud the detective would be when Ian would bring him the evidence necessary to convict Simon and finally close this case. This thought kept him from lingering on where his dick was at the moment.

Simon came shamefully quickly, and Ian decided not to run after his own orgasm, it was a lost cause at this point anyway. He let the other man collapsed under him and rolled to the side, taking the condom off his already soft member and tying it in a knot. He waited a couple of minutes, making sure Simon was well asleep, before he put his boxers back on, walked to the bathroom, discarded the condom, washed his hands, and peeked through the door adjacent to the bedroom. Simon was in a deep slumber. So Ian walked around the apartment, searching for clues, opening and closing the coffee table books, looking at the pictures, going through the mail in the bowl next to the door... Nothing interesting. Until he saw the desk. It was messy and full of documents and files on different things, from Simon's personal tax return to his medical record, and a big binder labeled "Fairy Tail". Ian went through it, each employee had their own section with their picture and some necessary information for their employment. Ian flipped through the pages alphabetically ordered, all the way to the "S". Noah Shaw... Leo Smith. Everything was there, similar to the others, except for a yellow post-it in the top right corner in which where scribbled two words: "Russel Hines". Ian took out his phone, ignoring the notifications for new incoming messages, and snapped a picture of Leo's information and post-it, before flipping the pages all the way back to the "G", looking for his own documents. Nothing was out of the ordinary, no post-it, no notes, just his basic employment information...

  


"What are you doing?"

  


Simon's voice made Ian jumped out of his skin. His heart beating way too fast in his chest, he turned around to see his boss standing in the bedroom's doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest, looking at him with an impenetrable expression on his face.

 


	11. I ain't cute

 

Mickey checked his phone for the seventeenth time this day. No new messages. When he had woken up that morning, he had seen a text from Ian, sent at three in the morning, telling him he was about to make "him" talk, but had received no news since. The electronic digit on his screen indicated 11.48am. Once again, he went through all of the texts he had sent the redhead since waking up.

  


[Sent, 7.04am] Make who talk?

  


[Sent, 7.33am] What are you doing?

  


[Sent, 8.06am] Don't do anything stupid.

  


[Sent, 9.21am] Gallagher, what the fuck?

  


[Sent, 11.40am] Answer me dipshit, the fuck is going on????

  


Mickey sighed and threw his phone loudly on his desk, just as Diego was walking by.

  


"You okay?"

  


Mickey shook his head and stood up, grabbing his coat and leaving his phone on the desk.

  


"I just need a smoke."

  


He knew he wasn't completely allowed to, but he chose to go up to the roof instead of down to the street because he knew he would have more privacy there, it was where he went when he didn't want to see anybody. He opened the heavy metal door and blocked it with a big rock he always left there conveniently. The snow had stopped falling during the night, now it just covered the gray city grounds and buildings with a layer of white. He walked to the edge of the roof, leaving footsteps behind, and fished his packet of cigarettes in his pocket, bringing one to his lips and lightning it. He was fidgeting, he was fucking pissed. Angry at Ian for doing something so stupid and potentially dangerous. And even more furious at himself for carrying and worrying like that. Why did he care? The redhead was just a murder suspect in his case. A murder suspect who wasn't so suspect anymore. A murder suspect who was cute, and funny, and adorable. Oh fuck. Mickey sucked on his cigarette harder, finishing it too quickly and lightening another one. He had only agreed to let Ian help because he felt bad for the guy, and Gallagher getting too involved and doing something stupid would compromise the investigation. That was it. Fuck him if he thought Mickey would keep him in the loop after that. They were done. Done. No more sharing information he shouldn't share, no more impromptu meals, or video games. They weren't friends. He would scratch Gallagher off the suspect list and they would part ways. Done. He finished his second cigarette a little slower, before letting it fall in the snow next to the other. He took a deep breath, threw one last glance at the city under his feet, and headed back inside.

  


He stepped out of the elevator just as Diego was stepping in, flashing him a big smirk and a "Mick, they're somebody waiting for you at your desk".

  


Mickey looked up to see a strand of red hair, and a familiar-looking man sitting awkwardly next to his desk. The detective took five big steps in this direction and didn't stop before turning toward the hallway, throwing a firm "Gallagher. Interrogation room. Now." as he passed by him. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the redhead stand up and following him. Mickey quickly deactivated the microphone when Ian closed the door behind himself.

  


"Sorry," the redhead started. "I know you told me not to come here anymore, but I have new..."

  


Mickey didn't let him finish his sentence and crowded him against the wall, grabbing the collar of his shirt angrily

  


"The fuck did you do?"

  


Ian looked from Mickey's hands, the knuckles turning white from where they clutched around the fabric, to his face.

  


"Are you going to hit me again?"

  


"What? No, I'm not going to..." Mickey dropped his hands and his angry demeanor – surprised and once again pissed at himself for letting Ian believe he was going to be violent – and he took a step back. "What did you do?"

  


"I got some stuff out of Simon." Ian confessed, straightening his shirt and reaching into his pocket. "I asked him about Leo and... I dig some digging around his apartment."

  


"What? How?"

  


"I have my ways."

  


The redhead's tone left little to the imagination, but Mickey decided to ignore it. He sighed and rubbed his face. Ian was so stupid. But maybe what he found could help...

  


“Jesus... What'd you got?"

  


"Well Simon didn't give up much on Leo, except that he knew he used a fake name and that he slept with him." – Mickey scrunched his face in disgust. – "But I managed to get that..."

  


Ian suddenly took out his phone and showed a picture to Mickey of a piece of paper and a post-it.

  


"What the hell is that?"

  


"It was on Simon's desk. Look at the post-it."

  


"You went through his stuff? You know I can't use that, right? You got this illegally!"

  


Ian's expression deflated a little bit. He had seem so proud of himself a second ago, and Mickey hated to be the one breaking his bubble, but fuck he was making his job even more complicated.

  


"You still have to look up Russel Hines." Ian added, expectantly.

  


Mickey sighed, biting the inside of his cheek. Ian had been through so much trouble to get this information, and it was true that it could be something huge – like it could also be nothing.

  


"I'll see what I can do."

  


The redhead's apologetic expression turned into a smile.

  


"Thanks." He walked around Mickey, heading for the door. "I'll see you later."

  


"Sure." Mickey nodded. "And answer your fucking messages!" he found himself adding.

  


Ian's smile got bigger. "You were worried about me. It's cute."

  


"I ain't cute." Mickey scoffed. "You can go now."

  


***

  


Mickey finished his day of work, focusing on meaningless cases, and trying not to think about the picture Ian had taken of this post-it. And he tried to think even less of the way Ian had obtained said picture. He didn't believe Simon was a dangerous man, but it was still stupid to get involved like that. And the fact that the redhead had most likely slept with his boss... it just rubbed Mickey the wrong way.

  


It was only when everybody else had left the precinct that Mickey allowed himself to think about this name again... Russel Hines... For some reason, it rang a bell, but he could not put a finger on it. He went to get himself a cup of coffee, he walked around the desks, he went through his files on the case, but nothing came to him. His desk was a mess compared to Diego's, the man was always so neat and organized. On their first case together, he... Their first case together! Mickey almost slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand at the revelation. He suddenly remembered where he had heard the name Russel Hines before!

 


	12. What happens behind close doors...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not know anything about gangs, drug rings, mafia or criminals in general, so I made things up. Forgive me if it's not realistic.

 

Simon was sitting at the bar when Ian walked into the club. His boss nodded his head with a tiny smirk as the redhead walked by him. Ian answered with a smile of his own. He needed to keep up appearances. He had been fortunate enough the night before that Simon was too sleepy to actually register what he was doing, and managed to defuse any follow-up questions with another round of sex, but he wasn't quite out of the woods yet. He went to the locker room and hung his coat before checking his phone and finding a new message from Mickey.

  


[Received, 8.27pm] Need your help. Now.

  


[Sent, 8.31pm] Where are you?

  


[Received, 8.32pm] Work.

  


[Sent, 8.32pm] I just arrived at the club, I can't just leave.

  


[Received, 8.34pm] Suit yourself.

  


Mickey had never sent him a message like this before, with so many words and so demanding. He didn't seem in immediate danger, but Ian was curious as to what the emergency was. He looked around the locker room for a moment, seeing some of his coworkers arrive and others finish their shift. Did he actually care if he got up and left and got fired for it? He did need the money. But on the other hand, he was on Simon's good side now, it was worth a shot. So he grabbed his coat and walked back to the bar, stopping in front of his boss, trying his best to look agitated and worried.

  


"Hey. I just got a text from my sister, there's some kind of emergency at home, I need to go."

  


Simon looked at him for a long minute, obviously trying to find the lie. And then, his shoulders dropped.

  


"You're fine. You never missed a day of work this past year, never called in sick. You can go, I'll find someone to cover your shift."

  


"Thanks." Ian genuinely smiled.

  


The guy was still a jerk, but a pretty decent boss at that moment.

  


***

  


The precinct at night was creepy. And empty. Mickey had met Ian at the front door, and now they were both sitting around his desk, and the detective extracted a big pile of documents from one of his drawers.

  


"I need you to look at these pictures and see if you recognize anybody from the club, client or employee."

  


Ian huffed an annoyed laugh.

  


"I risked my job to come here. This couldn't wait til morning?"

  


"Probably." Mickey shrugged. "But I got a hunch, I didn't want to sleep on it."

  


Ian shook his head. This man was a fucking asshole but, for some reason, he still wanted to help him, so he didn't tell him to fuck off and instead looked down at the different pictures on the pages laid out in front of him. All men, mostly white, from their 20s to their late 50s, all looking like dirty criminals.

  


"Who the fuck are these guys?"

  


"Gang, mafia, drug rings. The scum of the scum of Chicago."

  


"And I'm supposed to know them?"

  


"Just check if you vaguely recognize a face."

  


Ian went through all of the pictures, none rang a bell.

  


"Sorry. I don't know any of them." he declared, putting the last picture back on the pile.

  


"Fuck." Mickey sighed, rubbing his face with his hands and leaning back on his chair.

  


"Is one of them Russel Hines?" Ian asked, looking down at the picture of a 40-something man with a bald scalp and crude tattoos in lieu of hair.

  


"No. Well yeah, sort of." Mickey sat back up to meet Ian's glance. "It's a fake name some gang members use sometimes, like a code. They have several names like this, most that I don't know, but I remember Russel Hines from a previous case."

  


"So Leo was involved with a gang?"

  


Ian had trouble believing it. He remembered Leo as a sweet, somewhat promiscuous young man who had nothing of a criminal, someone who would fuck his way to the top, yes, but not a gangbanger.

  


"Maybe.” Mickey muttered, sounding irritated. “Who the fuck knows? And maybe Simon is also involved, or he just heard somebody call Leo like that and thought it was his real name. I don't fucking know yet."

  


Ian nodded, accepting the answer, before he realized something and smirked.

  


"So... I actually helped you? Gave you a new lead?"

  


"Fuck off." Mickey laughed at his blatant ask for praise.

  


"Are you going to thank me?"

  


"I scratched you off the suspect list this morning, is that thank you enough?"

  


"I'll take it."

  


The two men smiled at each other, and a new revelation hit Ian.

  


"Wait. I brought you the name at noon. Did you take me off the suspect list before that?"

  


Mickey almost blushed, or at least looked away, caught in the act.

  


"I... shut up."

  


That was almost cute. Ian smiled and took a moment to observe Mickey's features, his perfectly structured face, his pearly white skin, his faded freckles, his ocean blue eyes... The man was quite beautiful. How could he had never noticed before? Probably because the detective was too busy accusing him of murder. Ian had a tendency of falling for the wrong guy, but he wasn't that thirsty for suffering. The gorgeous eyes caught him staring and stared back. A long few seconds of silence passed between them, a silence full of things unsaid, of promises that had to be done. And suddenly Mickey's lips were on his, the first brush long and languid. Ian couldn't help it, he let out a short gasp at the contact, and his hands found Mickey's neck. He kissed him back, harder, with more intensity, and Mickey took advantage of Ian's response, slipping his tongue inside the redhead's mouth. Ian welcomed the intrusion, and pressed his body forward as much as he could, but his hips hit the desk still standing between them.

  


"Shit." he muttered between their lips before trying to walk around without breaking the kiss.

  


Mickey met him halfway and they found themselves making out against the metal desk. A few pieces of paper flew around, and a stapler fell to the floor, but neither of them cared, and Ian grabbed Mickey's hips to lift him up and helped him sit on the pictures he had previously gone through. His breathing quickly became erratic as their kiss turned into something much more intense; it was intoxicating. Mickey tasted like coffee and cigarettes, and Ian had never thought he could crave for something after only a few second of having it, but his entire body was already aching for more and he could feel a warm feeling in his stomach growing faster than he had intended to. Mickey had placed a hand on his neck and was gently caressing the soft skin under his jaw, making Ian feel like a mess. The redhead's hips rolled downward, causing Mickey to let out a groan against his lips that had Ian's dick jumped at full growth in his jeans. The sounds escaping Mickey's mouth got louder, his own hips bucking up to meet Ian thrust for thrust. Ian wasn't a blushing virgin, and it hadn't been that long since he had last had sex, but the unexpected effect of having Mickey rubbing against him was turning him into a teenager again. He suck on Mickey's bottom lip, and their bodies moved together as if they’d had years of experience as lovers. It happened easily and Ian couldn’t remember a time where being with someone had been so simple. Mickey was so sexy underneath him, moaning and gasping as if Ian was doing something amazing to his body. He arched into him and against him as Ian thrust down onto him. Their dicks were rubbing against each other through the thick material of their pants and boxers. And way too soon, he felt Mickey tense beneath him, his hand tightening in Ian’s hair and his nails dugging into the flesh of Ian’s shoulder as he let out a low groan. They kissed against, with more intent, and Mickey pulled Ian in closer, bucking up into him with every downward thrust Ian made until Ian’s body was shaking through his own orgasm. They finally pulled apart to get their breathing even, but Ian kept his forehead pressed against Mickey’s, he didn’t want to break the physical contact yet. He could barely see the blue in Mickey's eyes right now but the image he had in front of him was certainly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  


"I was so fucking worried about you." Mickey confessed in a whisper. "Don't do that again."

  


The demand was full of things unsaid but understood. Don't disappear again. Don't do anything stupid again. Don't sleep with Simon again.

  


"Never." Ian promised.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos and/or comments. And you can also come talk and share with me on my [tumblr](http://ilostmylifeonline.tumblr.com/), it's always appreciated. :)


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